


do you remember? 'cause i do

by vrooom



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, diner au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vrooom/pseuds/vrooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not your cup of tea?” Steve asks breathlessly. James turns around to look at him, and all the acrid remarks on his tongue fade away as he takes in Steve’s face. Steve’s hair is sticking up at odd angles, face slightly pink from the wind whipping against it. He’s openly laughing, eyes crinkled as he walks over to join James.</p>
<p>“It’s totally my cup of tea,” James replies deadpan. “In fact, it’s like those cups of tea that are so great you never want to try them again, just in case it’ll disappoint the second time. Let’s never go on it again.”</p>
<p>the diner au fic that no one asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	do you remember? 'cause i do

**Author's Note:**

> a [companion playlist](http://8tracks.com/captainfart/a-blueprint-of-my-soul) is available for your listening pleasure.
> 
> title from Dear Bobbie by Yellowcard. up until about thirty seconds ago it was just called "that diner fic"

Eyes snap open. The stuttering whir of dying machinery, made conspicuous by the absence of noise, wakes him up. After decades of the busy hum, of shouted orders and the tramp of booted feet overlying the whine of machines droning at all hours, the silence is deafening. The viewport of the tiny chamber defrosts, leaving the Winter Soldier to stare patiently at the blurry outline of shaggy hair and expressionless eyes that stare right back.

Mission. There is always a mission. He waits for officers to come and open the chamber. He ignores the rumbling growl of his stomach. That can wait until they come. Like they always do.

No one comes.

The Winter Soldier hesitates slightly before pushing against the cover. It doesn’t budge. Impatient, he balls his left hand into a fist, driving Soviet machinery repeatedly against reinforced metal until it falls away with a satisfyingly sharp _clang_. The scattered lights in the bunker illuminate only the dust motes disturbed by the falling door.

Stepping out, the Winter Soldier quickly assesses the situation. Three exits: a door straight ahead, one behind him to the left, and a window through which he cannot glimpse the outside. Two exits, then. No one in sight, and no one that he can sense behind the large machinery and shelves that litter the bunker.

As he makes a circuit around the room, the Winter Soldier picks up two revolvers and several knives, checking automatically to make sure the revolvers are loaded with quick, efficient movements. It is imperative to find what his objective is. He scans the room for any files that might give an indication of what to do. Finding none, he picks up a yellowed, brittle newspaper written in Russian. _Premiere Gorbachev Resigns. Soviet Union Dissolved_ the largest headline screams. 1991. It has to be at least a few years after these events. Searching for more clues, the Winter Soldier finds roughly five thousand United States dollars in a desk drawer, which he separates and shoves into his pockets.

Is he in the United States, then? Had he been in the Soviet Union, the currency would have been in rubles. The Winter Soldier briefly wonders whom he had been shipped over to target, before pushing useless speculations aside. He stands in the shadow of some shelving, considering what to do next. He is not used to figuring out objectives for himself, and decides to start with the most elementary of matters.

First order of business: find out where and when he is. Second: find some food. Third: find a new objective. The Winter Soldier’s stomach rumbles in affirmation at the thought of food. His cursory search of the bunker had not turned up anything edible. Disappointing, given that he was always ravenous after waking up from cryofreeze.

Satisfied (and slightly pleased) with the objectives he had set out for himself, the Winter Soldier waited for the cover of darkness before slipping through the door to the outside world.

A sharp blast of icy wind hits the Winter Soldier as he emerges from the bunker. Winter, he notes, snow crunching underfoot as he marches towards the nearest cluster of lights. A shame that he isn’t fully outfitted to withstand the temperature, but no matter. He had done far more with less before. Had he the thought processes to spare, he would appreciate the irony of the Winter Soldier emerging during the winter, but there are more pressing matters to think of. Flitting quickly away from the humorous thought, he acquires a newspaper.

December 20, 2011. Crouching in an alleyway behind a dumpster, the Winter Soldier looks blankly at the newspaper. It’s a little local paper, filled with the comings and goings of several counties and little of the world beyond. The paper’s byline proudly heralds that it serves the communities of Jefferson, St. Lawrence, and Lewis counties, New York. Upstate New York, then. Parsing the paper quickly, the Winter Soldier can find no reason to stay in town. The Red Room had presumably left him to die, and he no longer owed any allegiance to them.

And there was something about New York that kindled a flame deep within the recesses of his brain, deep where he had corralled the Other. He kept the Other in control most of the time, and sometimes when he woke up, the Other was practically nonexistent. But the Other always came back, and perhaps because he had woken up alone, it was particularly strident in urging him towards New York City. For once, he is inclined to listen. Very well. He will make his way to New York City as soon as he finds some food.

The Winter Soldier prowls around the town situated in the valley below the Red Room facility. Small as the town is, he finds a dark house, owners presumably sleeping or out, and silently slips in. Hopefully, the people living there will not notice the loss of a container of chicken, some bread, and a couple of bottles of water.

It’s time to head south. Though the Winter Soldier is certain he has never explored the geography of New York State in depth, there is a _click_ in his head, like a bird migrating for the winter. He doesn’t know how he knows where to go. But he does.

He starts walking.

 

New York City is loud. Dirty. It smells like hot garbage, wet pennies, and piss.

New York City feels like home.

The Winter Soldier blends in well with the rest of the masses of humanity in the jeans, well-worn boots, and hoodie he had picked up along the way. That, and the cash and weapons in the backpack slung loosely over his left shoulder, hand tucked into a pocket, comprise the entirety of his worldly possessions. He slouches through New York City, taking in the quickly spit curses and the incredible stench of too many people crowded into too small a space. Times Square is a disaster. Too many lights, people, and tall buildings that make him feel vulnerable and exposed. That and the number of people who shove flyers in his face advertising cheap ferry rates to the Statue of Liberty or up to the top of the Empire State Building direct his footsteps well away from flashing billboards and scalpers.

He finds himself in quieter neighborhoods, away from the frantic rhythm of life in Manhattan. There are lower buildings; more spread out than the tightly crammed apartment buildings he had seen in Manhattan, where everyone lives cheek by jowl in each other’s business. Here in the winding alleyways and comfortable, lived-in atmosphere of slightly run-down Brooklyn, the Winter Soldier finds himself breathing easier. He finds the Other situating itself contentedly, already dropping down roots to make itself at home. The Winter Soldier does not protest, acquiescing, as he always does, to the more forceful demands of the people around him.   

Before he can do anything else, he needs a name. The Winter Soldier is not a name. All the other people he’s passed by so far on the streets have names like Sarah. Henry. Matthew. John. Mary. Jasmine. The Winter Soldier decides he needs a name for himself. He hesitates for days before deciding to choose a name for himself. It has to be the perfect name. Choosing a name for himself will be the first choice he has undertaken since he has woken up – since he can remember – the at is not directly related to a mission or to his immediate survival. The Winter Soldier wants to choose a name that he thinks fits him best. That he _likes._

But where does one find names? The names he hears people shout as they walk by are unimpressive. He walks into a bookstore and heads towards the parenting section, pulling out _The Complete Book of Baby Names_ and flipping through. Twin names, lists of names popular in Australia, most popular names in 1945. The Winter Soldier flips through the book roughly, finally deciding that he wants a name that starts with the letter J. He opens up to the long list of names that starts with J, inching down the columns as he considers and discards Jacob, Jeremiah, and John.

James. That sounds like a good name.

His name is James.       

James finds an apartment on a quiet street, where the landlady accepts $500 a month cash with no deposit. She’s quietly happy to have someone speak Russian with her and talk about the mother country at great length. He nods and plays the part of a wide-eyed young expatriate as she talks about life before the fall of the Iron Curtain. Sometimes, she talks about events that bring back a sudden barrage of images that flash in the back of his mind, and he bites his lip as he slowly processes the memories the Red Room has erased back into his brain. The emotions, regret for those he killed, anger against those who made him this way, confusion about who he was before the Winter Soldier, make their way to him in the dark of the night, when no one can hear the muffled sobs that overtake him.

The landlady – Katya, her name is Katya – helps him find a bed and a worn coffee table, and gives him some of her old pots and pans. When James protests weakly at her kindness, she places a hand on his cheek and tells him she had a son who, had he lived through the Chechnyan war, would be about his size and age. James nods quietly and thanks Katya, taking the kitchen equipment upstairs.

He finds peace from the whirlwind of activity in his mind through food. Measuring out precise amounts of flour and fat to make gravy, setting a pot of broth, a hunk of meat, and some vegetables to boil, testing to see whether the bread is done requires the majority of his concentration. James doesn’t know where this knowledge comes from. He suspects it’s the soft, insistent pressure nudging against the partition in his mind, where the unknown Other makes its presence known at all times. Perhaps the Other had been a cook, or perhaps the Other had needed to cook for his friends. Whatever the reason, cooking is a time when everything is tranquil, and he values it greatly. Sometimes, he even brings some down for Katya, who smiles gratefully and sets him a place at her table, chasing down the hearty meal with endless shots of vodka.

 

\--------

 

He needs a job.

Sadly, the job he is most suited for - assassinations, interrogations, various and sundry other forms of intimidation and efficient removal - is also the one he wants to distance himself away from the most. The revolvers he brought out of the Hydra facility remain at the bottom of the backpack he had brought with him to New York City, a comforting insurance policy, but also a reminder of what he had used to do.

Working in construction would be the next logical avenue. He is strong, appearing still to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and can easily lift at least his own body weight. But working on construction would involved a lot of awkward questions about his metal arm, which he would need to keep discreetly hidden under long sleeves and gloves.

Retail is out of the question. There is pulsating music bursting out of heavily air conditioned and under lit rooms, youths in various states of undress brightly trotting out the same tired greetings again and again, and an overpowering scent cloying the air. James idly wonders if the smiles are permanently frozen into a state of vapidity on the workers’ faces, before dismissing the idea of a retail job altogether.

Katya eventually helps him find a job. Perhaps motivated as much by the threat of not having any rent as out of sympathy for her fellow expatriate, she nudges him towards a small twenty-four hour diner three streets over that is in desperate need of a late night cook.

It’s a tiny place. Just barely long enough to fit a kitchen, a long table with seven barstools, four tiny tables, a jukebox, and a mounted television, it is a popular place for the locals to pick up lunch or dinner on their way back from work. The diner serves exactly two meal choices every single day, with assorted desserts, all of which are made in the kitchen that is in plain view of the diners. There is no printed menu, just the day’s specials and prices written up on the chalkboard over the cash register in plain white chalk. The owner, whom James had met several times for only a few minutes each, insists that this makes the diner feel more like home - and also keeps them coming back for new food each day. James doesn’t disagree with that rationale.

James gets the graveyard shift, straightening up the remnants of the day and serving drunks coffee and pastries at two in the morning to help them sober up. He leaves insomniacs to nurse a slice of pie at one of the tables until the sun comes up. It’s nothing too important ( _not like shaping the century_ a voice like one from his past life whispers in the back of his mind), but it keeps clothes on his back and a roof over his head. Plus, he can cook whatever he wants and take it back home for his own meals.

Most of his free time is spent wandering around New York City, taking in the sights and smells and wondering why the Other had nudged him towards this exact location. So far, nothing has sprung up. It is a peaceful existence, however, nodding to the regulars and slowly learning how to joke and smile with the clientele. The dreams become less and less urgent, and sometimes he can even sleep uninterrupted for several hours straight. James is content.

Steve isn’t sure how he found the diner. Tucked into one of the tiny side streets not far from his apartment, the entire block smells like whatever the meals of the day are, enticing passers-by to come in and stop for some coffee and cake or shepherd’s pie.

It’s solid food, food that would not be out of place in the 1930s, back when Steve was still struggling to find gainful employment and all that business with the serum and Hydra and waking up seventy years later was a possibility that he hadn’t even dreamed about. Now, in a still-unfamiliar world, knocked off-kilter with the knowledge that everyone he knew is likely senile or dead, Steve takes comfort where he can find it. Taking a bite of bread pudding, the sound of big band jazz playing in the background, Steve can pretend that his biggest worry is how to convince someone to take him on as a sweep or draw penny pictures to supplement the income that Bucky’s brought in.

Steve is vaguely aware that pretending won’t not solve anything. His therapists at SHIELD would probably use some fancy words to say the same thing, and then advise him to join a group or find a date to help “firmly ground him in modern day life.” And when he fails to do so for yet another week, the therapists will probably _tut tut_ at his reluctance but tell him to try a little harder next week and leave it at that. He knows he’ll have to try someday. But for now, Steve will happily retreat into his little world, even if it’s just for half an hour a few times a week, when he sips his coffee and indulges in the illusion of life as it should have been.

 

“Hey Jon, just a cup of coffee when you get the chance,” Steve calls out, heading for his favorite barstool. He pours into the seat with a deep sigh, rotating his shoulders to release the last bit of tension in his back. It had been a long day of cleanup after the last batch of aliens blasted through town. Technically, Steve wasn’t supposed to be on cleanup duty, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty about the damage he caused the city on a bi-weekly basis.

It’s times like these that Steve misses Bucky the most. Bucky would always know the right thing to say to snap him out of the doldrums, to reassure him that he was doing the right thing.

“Sorry, but Jon quit last week and I’m taking over his shift.” Steve starts out of his slump, looking up quickly. “My name is James and I’ll be your server. Would you like anything else with your coffee?”

Steve stares at James, who is pouring him coffee. James is the same height as Bucky. He sounds exactly like Bucky. He looks exactly like Bucky, except with more stubble and longer hair. But Bucky is dead. 

“Bucky?” He asks anyway. It’s more hopeful prayer than query, the tail end trailing quickly away into silence.

James shifts from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable under the weight of Steve’s gaze. “Sorry, I think you have the wrong guy. My name is James.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right. So... Can I take your order?” James asks again.

“Uh, no thanks,” Steve fumbles. “Just the coffee is fine." 

Bu- no James nods. “If you need anything else, just yell.”

Steve watches James walk away every step widening the gap between them. It’s just as palpable as the yawning chasm to which he had lost Bucky seventy years ago. He reaches out towards Bu- _James_ , then grabs his cup of coffee in front of him and drains it. 

Steve slips a twenty under the cup and leaves.

It has to be Bucky. There’s no other explanation that Steve can accept. He pounds through the streets of Brooklyn, spooking cats in alleyways and startling dogs into barking loudly at thin air as he passes by in a blur. Every sharp breath, every footfall is punctuated by one word in his mind.

_Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky._

Bucky is alive.

 

\----  


 

Steve comes back the next night, cautiously poking his head through the front door at 3:30 in the morning. He’s managed to convince himself that yesterday night was a hallucination, borne out of fatigue and an uncharacteristic longing for his best friend. The comforting smells of the diner enfold him in its warmth, and he breathes out contentedly. The hairs at the back of his neck prickle, warning him that there is something there watching him, but he ignores it. He’s hungry.

Yorkshire pudding sounds good.

“You’re that guy from yesterday,” someone comments from the kitchen. Steve flinches, recognizing the voice.

“Uh, hey.” Steve shuffles awkwardly, determinedly looking anywhere but at him.

“Uh, hey,” James mocks him. “You left in a hell of a hurry yesterday. I didn’t even get your change back to you.” He smirks, waving a little plastic bag at him. 

“You can keep the change,” Steve mumbles. He sits down on the little barstool, the heel of one foot resting on the railing and the other dangling near the ground.

“What can I get for you?” James doesn’t bother with a pad and pen, given that they’re the only people in the diner.

“Yorkshire pudding?”

“Coming right up.”

Steve wonders what he’s doing here. Sure, he has been coming to the diner for several months now, but he isn’t sure it’s the best idea to continue coming back to a place where someone looks so much like Bucky. It would be a test of his self control that he’s not sure he can handle.

Besides, it wouldn’t be fair for James, who is _not_ Bucky, to have to deal with the attentions of a lonely man. Maybe it’s time for him to find a new diner. A place where the food might not be as good, but the ghosts of his past won’t dish up sausages with a smile.

“Yorkshire pudding and roast beef for you,” James slides a plate down the bar. He refills Steve’s coffee cup and walks away, dishes clinking as he rearranges them in the sink.

Steve bites into the roast beef, stifling a moan of satisfaction. It’s pure heaven, soft beef melting apart as he picks up a piece of the batter. All too soon, he stares down at his clean plate, wondering if he should order some more.

“Can I tempt you with dessert?” James calls out from the back.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. Surprise me,” Steve shrugs.

“I hope you like apple cake.” James brings out a generous slice and places it in front of Steve.

He stares down a lump forming in his throat. “What made you think about apple cake?” Steve asks carefully, picking up his fork.

James scratches his head uncertainly. “I dunno really,” he finally replies. “Something told me you would really like it. Intuition I guess? Why, do you not like it?”

“No, it’s my favorite,” Steve said thickly through a mouthful of cake. “Whoops.” He winces as he notices the spray of crumbs on the counter.

“It’s all right, that’s what I’m here for,” James waves away his apologies. “I gotta do something to earn my pay.”

Steve looks at his pile of plates. “Thanks for the meal,” he says finally.

“Any time. Not a lot of people come into the diner during the graveyard shift. You’re good company. And you even talk, too.” He hands Steve the bill.

“I’ll come by again soon.” Steve fishes out a handful of bills and gives them to James. “See you later.”

“Bye.” James waves him out the door.

 

\----

 

It becomes a regular thing, Steve showing up two or three times a week to chat with James.

James is not Bucky. Of that, Steve is at least 99% sure.

Ignoring the tiny fact that Steve had seen Bucky fall to his death from a train at full speed high in the mountains, Bucky would be older. Just like Peggy Carter, whom he had visited recently, Bucky would be old and wrinkled, senile at best or dead at worst. He would not be young, whipcord lean, and grinning animatedly at him as he tries the lemon meringue pie that he brought out from the refrigerator not five minutes ago.

But there are times when James seems so much like Bucky that Steve can’t speak or even _breathe_ for a few moments, taken aback by how similar they are. There was a few nights back, when they were bantering back and forth and James had called him Stevie. Steve had been taken aback at how easily it had slipped from James’ mouth, when no one else had ever called him Stevie. People had either been dismissive of him in the past, eyes sliding right over his scrawny frame, or they are too in awe of his physique and his heroic feats to even think about calling him Stevie. Only Bucky had stuck around long enough to take his measure of Steve and ignore everyone else to call him Stevie, a sign of affection whenever he needed it.

Steve must have looked alarming upon hearing the nickname, judging by how quickly James had apologized.

“Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. It just kind of slipped out, you know?”

“No... It’s ok. I don’t think I mind if you call me Stevie.”

Both of them smiled tentatively before resuming their conversation.

 

\----

 

“So I know that I remind you of someone,” James says conversationally one day as he slides Steve a short stack of pancakes and some syrup.

“I don’t kn-” Steve starts.

“I can see it in your face,” James cuts in. “When I turn around to back into the kitchen or get the bill, and I can feel your eyes burning into my back. When I come towards you to take your order or give you food and you always startle a little, like I’m a ghost from your past. When you have that look in your eyes, like I’m the only thing that exists in this world. You try to hide it, but you don’t do it well enough.”

Steve flushes, embarrassed that he’s been caught. “I didn’t know that you knew,” he mumbles, ducking his head and reaching for the syrup.

“Believe me, I know when people are watching me,” James laughs. Something about the way he says it makes Steve look up sharply to find James’ face flickering from good humor to a bitter twist of lips and back again. James motions towards his plate. “You gonna drown your pancakes?”

The syrup dispenser is three-quarters empty, its contents soaking through the entire stack and creating a moat around the rim of the plate. Steve quickly rights the dispenser, picking up his fork and knife to prod uncertainly at the sodden mass. He knits his brows together, sighs, and begins cutting in.

James laughs. “You want me to get you a fresh stack? On the house. You’d probably get diabetes eating that mountain of sugar,” he winks. As Steve nods dumbly, still blushing, James walks away from him, back into the kitchen.

 

\----  


 

“Who is it?”

A plate of meatloaf plunks down unceremoniously in front of Steve as James hunkers down conspiratorially across from him. James tries to act nonchalant, seamlessly resuming the conversation from a few nights before, but he holds himself a little too stiffly. Steam rises between the two as silence falls after the question. The silence is long enough that James starts to feel his training creep slowly back in, settling down in a contradictory state of languid relaxation and alertness. His eyes flicker from Steve’s face to his body to assess the threat that Steve may pose. It’s with a concentrated effort that James relaxes his body, flushing out the Winter Soldier, as Steve stirs, finally looking straight at him as he opens his mouth.

“He was my best friend,” Steve mumbles, dragging the plate towards him. He picks up a fork and cuts in, humming appreciatively at the blend of spices before swallowing to continue. “He enlisted to fight but didn’t want me to go. I was pretty sickly as a child, if you can believe,” Steve quirks an eyebrow at James, who couldn’t help snorting. Steve is the furthest away from sickly that he can imagine. “But I didn’t listen to him,” Steve continues soberly. “I followed him into war right when he was about to leave, I think. He always had this thing about protecting me, you know? I don’t think he could have left if I was staying.”

James stays silent, sensing a shift in Steve’s mood.

“One thing after another happened, and I ended up leading a group of covert ops men. He joined too. Not to follow me, the leader, but to follow that scrappy kid from Brooklyn and cover his ass,” Steve cuts off abruptly. He swallows hard, looking down, then continues with a wry, bitter parody of a smile. “Bucky was the only one of my men that I lost.”

He gets up and walks out of the diner quickly, ignoring James’ “Steve! Wait!”

 

\----

 

Steve can’t say why he tells James all these things. James isn’t Bucky. James may look like Bucky, but that’s about it. James is softer, more susceptible to smiling and laughing. He’s amenable to light ribbing when Steve makes fun of him, and is quick to make fun of Steve when he drops change on the floor or spills ketchup on his front by accident. But there’s also a steely core that James hides well, well enough that Steve has to search to find it. He does find it, in the way that he’s automatically on guard, right before James comes smiling out of the kitchen to greet him, and he relaxes. He sees it in the way that James’ eyes constantly flicker from Steve’s face to the entrance across from him and back, just like Bucky’s did during the long wait on a mountain ridge hundreds of yards away from his target.

With all these similarities compounded onto each other, Steve finally concludes that it’s like unburdening his soul at confession, replacing the man in front of him with the man to whom he wants to tell everything. Having the same face watch him as he tells carefully edited stories of the Howling Commandos and how he felt about the events that unfolded during World War II goes a long way towards calming himself in a way that telling the therapists at SHIELD does not. Steve sometimes wonders, whether it’s the healthiest thing to do, to burden another man with his misplaced longings. He doesn’t mention any of this to anyone else.

In certain instances, it seems like Bucky was resurrected from that deep valley to watch him while he eats. He lifts his chin while trying to make a point, like Bucky did. There’s a special half-lidded smirk that has consistently left Steve knock-kneed since 1923, reserved only for him. Sometimes, there is a certain tilt to his head while he listens to Steve talk, exposing the pronounced edge of his jawbone. Most nights, it takes the greater part of Steve’s self-control to keep himself from staring at the protrusion for too long.

“What makes you take this shift? You’re always here through the night,” Steve asks curiously.

James snorts. “Can’t sleep,” he replies curtly. “I’d rather earn some money while I’m awake than stare at the ceiling.”

Steve nods slowly and stares at the slice of pie in front of him. 

“What about you?” James rakes his hand through his hair, pushing hair straggling from his ponytail firmly back. “I’m scheduled to work here but you look like you’d have a place to be. Doesn’t your girlfriend get worried?”

An amused puff of hair puffs out from Steve. “I only need four or five hours of sleep and I go to bed early.” The implied _I go to bed early so I can come here_ goes unspoken. Steve laughs. “If you think I have a girlfriend then clearly you haven’t talked to me for long.”

James’ gaze sharpens, reassessing Steve. “Boyfriend?” 

The other fumbles, dropping his chunk of pie mid-air in surprise. “No,” Steve protests. “Well, I mean yes, but I like both. Wait, you didn’t need to know that.” He looks flustered, clearly not used to divulging so much about himself to someone. “What I meant to say is that I’m not exactly significant other material, so no, I don’t have anyone that would be concerned about me talking to a handsome stranger,” Steve finishes helplessly.

He immediately looks mortified at himself for the last part, opening his mouth to protest again.

Despite himself, James feels warmth blossom in his chest. “You better think I’m handsome,” he retorts. “I’ve been serving you coffee and pie and pancakes for the past two months.”

“Hey do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“It might be a little invasive. If you don’t want to, I promise you don’t have to answer.”

James stops rubbing down the counter, giving Steve his full attention. “I’m listening.”

“All right. So uh, I noticed that you favor your left arm a lot. And only that one is always gloved. Can I ask why?”

The silence stretches. James contemplates his left arm. Well, he’s surprised that Steve didn’t notice earlier, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

“I mean, you don’t have to ans-”

“I have a prosthetic arm,” James finally replies. “Afghanistan. Had an engineer friend that made me a workable arm, experimental and all that. But it’s made out of shiny metal and it’s disconcerting to other people, not to mention uncomfortable for me. So I keep it covered up.”

“Afghanistan huh?”

“Mhm,” James nods. “Did a couple of tours and shipped back home with this thing.” He lifts his arm and clunks it against the counter in illustration.”

Steve nods back, clearly wanting to ask more.

“But I really prefer not to talk about it,” James says, not unkindly. “You need more coffee?” he asks, changing the subject abruptly.

“Yeah, I think I do,” Steve takes his cue easily, segueing into their recently started but heated discussion over the better baseball team. Steve loves the Yankees, while Bucky scoffs at his jump on the bandwagon and sticks staunchly to rooting for the Mets.

 

\----

 

“So... do you ever want to get coffee some time?”

Steve brushes a light dusting of snow from his hair as he gratefully sips from the cup of coffee James just poured for him. He squints, confused. “James I’m drinking coffee right now.”

“No, I mean do you ever want to get coffee while I’m not on the clock? Also something better than black drip with the world’s smallest amount of milk. Like. Starbucks or something.” James rolls his eyes. “Maybe some normal hour of the day, too.”

“Oh. Sure. Why not? When?”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Let me pencil that in.” Steve pretends to pull a planner out of his pocket. “Mm, I think I can fit it in between saving the world and feeding my dog. Four o’clock sound okay?” Steve grins at him.

“Yeah right, like you _actually_ save the world. Four sounds great. There’s a Starbucks around the corner, wanna meet there?”

“Mhm.” Steve’s enthusiastic reply is muffled by the biscuit currently crammed into his mouth.

“Four it is,” James sighs resignedly.

 

\----

 

At 3:45, James is hovering around the corner of Starbucks, nervously smoothing down his shirt. He’d put on the pair of jeans that isn’t ripped, the shirt that doesn’t have grease stains down the front, but hadn’t quite managed to win the battle against his hair. Katya had taken one look at him in her doorway, comb caught in the helplessly tangled thicket of hair, and burst out laughing at the pitiable sight. She then took a brush and teased out the snarls in his hair, gathering the hair into the neat little bun that Bucky fought against, tugging at nervously.

In short, James looks and feels like he hadn’t for a long time - or in ever, he suspects - like he’s in middle school, taking his crush out for a first date with clammy palms.

_It’s just coffee_ he chides himself. _Nothing more._ The Other is suspiciously silent, probably watching with bated breath to see what will happen.

He walks to the front of Starbucks ten minutes later, grinning widely as he sees Steve in front of the store. Even Steve is dressed up a little, dark jeans, a plaid shirt, and leather jacket a welcome change from the sweatpants and athletic shoes he normally wears to the diner.

“Hey,” James greets him, smiling. “You clean up pretty nicely in daylight.”

“You too,” Steve smiles back, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the apron.”

“Yeah, whatever,” James rolls his eyes. “Let’s get our drinks.”

They find a place to sit in a corner of the store, sheltered away from everyone else on their laptops and the baristas calling out orders to customers. James breaks the silence first. “So... What do you do? Besides eat at the diner three times a week in the wee hours of the morning, of course.”

“Um, I draw.”

“Ooh, an artist. I didn’t know I had such talent coming in.”

“Nah, I’m not that great,” Steve smiles crookedly. “I mostly just sketch a few things and that’s about it. Because of,” he hesitates, “certain circumstances, I have enough to live comfortably while pursuing what I want to do. It just requires a lot of sudden travel, but it’s all right. 

“Neat. D’you think I’ll ever be able to see some of your stuff?” James asks.

Steve takes a long sip from his straw. James frowns as he takes in the whipped cream and the blended drink with obviously too much caramel drizzled on top. “Steve. Are you drinking a frappuccino?”

“Yes,” Steve replies defensively. “Caramel frappuccinos are the best thing at Starbucks. Better than your latte, at any rate.”

James can’t stop himself from laughing. Here in front of him is a ridiculous man who drinks cupful after cupful of black coffee every night with his meals, sipping what is essentially a coffee milkshake through a giant straw. Of _course_ he has to get a venti. James suspects that Steve isn’t capable of doing anything by halves.

They walk around the neighborhood after James finishes his drink, settling on a little park bench as they watch families play on a warm Friday afternoon. Steve finally sucks up the last of the whipped cream as James mock crows in victory, to which Steve makes a face. They’re strangely reluctant to leave each other, and they vacillate back and forth between leaving and hanging out some more before Steve finally asks, “Do you want to watch a movie at my place? It’s only two streets down,” and James gratefully accepts.

Neither of them know what movie Steve pulls up on Netflix. Something with a lot of explosions, but neither of them notices because they fall asleep in the middle of the movie, sprawled out on either end of the couch. James wakes up to the feeling of cotton in his mouth, silence, and a black screen, cursing as he checks the time.

“Hey Steve,” James gently shakes him. “It’s been a great time, but I’m gonna be late for work. Hang out with you again soon.”

“Mmm?” Steve mumbles, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. His short hair is mussed, a soft feathered halo around his face, and James sighs resignedly as he notices how goddamn cute Steve is.

“I gotta get back home to get ready for my shift at the diner tonight,” James repeats. “Sorry to leave you so quickly but the guy before me gets pretty tetchy when I don’t show up on time. Hang out with you later?" 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Steve offers him a small smile. 

James looks down, focusing on the tiny upward curve of his mouth. He feels like he should do something in the pregnant silence, but breaks his gaze away instead. “See you soon.” 

“See you.”

 

\----

 

“You been to Coney Island since you were a kid?”

Somehow, they find themselves at the gate of Luna Park on Coney Island early on a Saturday morning. Steve buys James’ ticket, despite protests that he has enough money, come _on_ Stevie. Steve just looks at him with big round blue eyes, and that’s the end of that.

They walk around the park a little, before it’s crowded by thousands of tiny feet stirring up dust everywhere on the pathways. By unspoken agreement, both of them stop before the Cyclone. They look up, then at each other.

“Think you’re up for it?” Steve quirks an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” James says, with a little more bravado than he feels. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he doesn’t particularly like heights. This looks okay though, so why not? Steve obviously wants to go on it and it shouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. “You’re on.”

One roller coaster ride later, James staggers out of the car, face pinched.

“Not your cup of tea?” Steve asks breathlessly. James turns around to look at him, and all the acrid remarks on his tongue fade away as he takes in Steve’s face. Steve’s hair is sticking up at odd angles, face slightly pink from the wind whipping against it. He’s openly laughing, eyes crinkled as he walks over to join James.

“It’s totally my cup of tea,” James replies deadpan. “In fact, it’s like those cups of tea that are so great you never want to try them again, just in case it’ll disappoint the second time. Let’s never go on it again.”

“At least you didn’t throw up on it. And that is quite possibly one of the lamest metaphors ever.”

“Something tells me you’ve thrown up on it,” James comments, trying to push away the yawning chasm of fear that still threatens to swallow him. He cocks his head at Steve. “Please tell me this happened.”

Steve groans, rolling his eyes theatrically. “My friend made me ride the Cyclone until I threw up. I always wanted to get back at him for that.” He grew unfocused, smiling fondly at his childhood memories.

“Sounds like kind of a dick to me,” James says after a while, trying to pull his attention back to the present.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah he was. But only the first go ‘round was his fault. After that, it was just me and my sheer stubbornness.” He laughs again, nostalgia coloring his chuckles. “Come on, I’m sure there’s stuff more suited to your age group this way.” He holds out his left hand, apology for James’ discomfort clear in his eyes.

Swallowing hard, James takes Steve’s hand with his right. Steve’s fingers squeeze tight for a second, before dragging him excitedly off in pursuit of the next adventure. 

Over in the corner is a small arcade and games area, where park goers can try their hand at ring toss, the milk bottle game, and skeeball, among others.

“You gonna win me a stuffed animal, handsome?” James bats his eyes at Steve.

“Nah, those things are always rigged,” Steve waves dismissively. “I came over for this.”

This, as it turns out, is a penny machine. A penny machine that is dark with age, clearly used often to press the shape of the Coney Island skyline, or the Cyclone, or the amusement park’s logo into the face of the penny. James imagines the countless numbers of grubby little hands that must have inserted a penny and a nickel into the machine, turned the lever, and pulled out a shiny distorted penny, excited at the new plaything they had gotten.

“Did you know this penny machine has been here since at least the 1920s?” Steve breaks into his thoughts. “Think about all the people who come here to get a quick present for a friend, or pressed their faces as close against the glass as they dared, watching the penny elongate and come out the way they wanted.”

James stares at the penny machine. The Other roars at the back of his head, nudging insistently for him to do... something? Brief snatches of memory dance around his consciousness, different from the memories of gunpowder and red and carnage. He remembers a thumb running over the ridges of a penny, smelling the hot copper of the newly pressed metal.

“You wanna make one with me? My treat.” Steve jingles a handful of coins, clearly prepared for this moment.

“Why?” James asks curiously. Something is pulling at him still, the Other prodding insistently for him to do it, but he wants to know why it’s so important for both Steve and the Other. It’s only a small piece of metal after all, legal tender bent out of shape and sure to be lost soon in the cracks between sofa couches and behind bookshelves.

Steve scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, I pressed a penny once at this machine, with my best friend. He made one with me and then everything happened,” his face tightens briefly, before smoothing out again, “And since then, I’ve made one with everyone that comes with me to Coney Island.” His face tinges slightly pink.

James smiles. “All right, I’ll do it.”

They feed in first three quarters, then a penny, and then again, into the slots and watches as a shiny relief of Luna Park’s most recognizable attraction fall into the slot at the bottom of the machine. Steve picks one up and gives it to James, smiling as he does so.

James takes it, dropping it into his right hand pocket.

For the rest of the day, he finds his hand in his pocket, rubbing at the little penny, feeling like this somehow signifies something important that he is missing. He ignores the way that the Other is purring contentedly, determined to enjoy at least one day without navel gazing for too long.

 

\----

 

James turns over to look at his clock. 6 AM. He scrubs his face roughly and sighs. Three hours.

Three hours is normal for James. He can’t sleep for long stretches at a time, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not like he dreams about the kills he knows he committed in his long career as the Winter Soldier. James doesn’t dream much. Or at least, he doesn’t remember his dreams. He just closes his eyes and wakes up at the slightest disturbance.

One of the first things James bought for his small apartment was a thick curtain for his bedroom. The street lamp had shone directly into his face. Then it was the sound of a couple arguing on the street corner at midnight. Then the ticking of his clock in the silence of the apartment. After two months, James had taken care of most of the things that annoyed him.

He sighs. It’s time to get up. James goes to take a piss and scratches his belly as he stands in front of the refrigerator. There is some fried chicken and bread pudding from the diner last night, but he isn’t feeling like it today. Chugging down some milk from the carton, James makes a face and decides to call it a day.

Today is his day off, and James wants to wander around the city. He still feels a visceral connection to New York City that he can’t shake. Could it be that the Other holds this knowledge? He has come to accept the niggling feeling at the base of his skull as an unavoidable part of being the Winter Soldier, and accommodated the feeling but didn’t indulge it too much. In any case, walking to Central Park would keep his mind off Steve.

Steve is an enigmatic figure. He comes in night after night to eat food, sure, but also to talk to James. It would be a little creepy, except that Steve is like a painfully earnest golden retriever, all floppy hair and huge eyes. Steve also has some shadows in his past, James can tell, but he’s sure that it’s the quiet and dark of 3 am that lets Steve’s weariness bleed through his all-American persona. He’s sure that in broad daylight, like at Coney Island, Steve would be a smiling, upstanding citizen eager to help his fellow human being.

What were those shadows? James can’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something about the way that Steve talked and carried himself that seemed incongruous. Steve sat a little too straight. His gaze was too clear and his patterns of speech was like something that came out of the books he had been reading at the library. There was something a little old fashioned about him that made Steve strangely comfortable to be with. 

The sun shines down faintly against the back of James’ neck. He decides to walk around Manhattan, refamiliarizing himself while the Other tells him that he should know all of this already.

James had to admit, upon arrival, that the Other was on to something. Central Park had changed greatly the last time he’d been there. _When had he last been there?_ Flashbacks of Hoovervilles lining the banks of the lake and run down grass overlay the scenery before him. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his thin winter coat, James sprawls out on a park bench facing the sun, closing his eyes and soaking up the warmth it provides.

A blast ten feet away startles James. _Getting a little slow there_ he chides himself. Scrambling to his feet, James quickly assesses the situation, eyes flicking back and forth to determine the threat and several quick exit routes. He flexes his fingers, aching for the comforting heft of a machine gun. The small knife in his boot would not have any effect on... He squints into the sky. Robots? 

The robot looks like one of those Doombot things-

“Get away!” a deep voice yells, snapping James out of his reverie. A vaguely red, white, and blue, man-shaped blur streaked past him, urging people to move as far away as possible. Wait. But that was impossible. Right? It’s only a coincidence that the guy in that ridiculous outfit sounds like Steve. And has the same build. And the same set to his shoulders.

James grabs a passerby. “Who is that guy in the blue?” He points at the man, who by then had been joined in battle by a red and yellow tin can and someone with a bow and arrow.

“Pal, where you been? Don’t you know who Captain America is?” The man wriggles out of James’ slackened grip, looking back incredulously at the person who doesn’t know about Captain America.

Captain America.

The throbbing feeling at the base of his skull intensifies, sharpening as he watches the spangled man throw a shield at the robot and snap it cleanly in half.

James walks away from the fight slowly, lost in fragments of memory. He sees variations of the uniform wreathed in smoke, silhouetted against the sky on an outcropping of rock, and marching by his side. Try as he might, he can’t unmask the figure in his mind and he grimaces in frustration.

 

\----

 

Warm air tingles against James’ face as he pushes into the library.

“Hi,” James pastes a smile onto his face. “Where can I find things about Captain America?”

The librarian hums. “Captain America? Are you looking for a general overview or are you interested for academic purposes?”

“Probably just a little more than a general overview. Maybe one thick volume?” James replies. Academic purposes? There’s enough material on Captain America to write academic stuff?

The librarian nods, then points to her left. “If you go up the stairs there and make a right, then you’ll be in the adult non-fiction section. Look up this call number,” she quickly jots some numbers down, “And you’ll be in the Captain America section. I wrote down the specific call number of a popular title, but all the books pertaining to him are in the area. If you don’t like it, then browse around until you find something that you enjoy. My name is Olivia, please let me know if you have any other questions.” She smiles pleasantly.

“Thanks, Olivia,” James nods at her.

He picks up the piece of paper and walks up the stairs, searching for call number 940.54. Stopping in front of _Captain America: A Biography_ , James surveys his choices. There is at least two rows of books dedicated completely to Captain America, ranging from _American Exceptionalism and Captain America_ to _Captain America in the 21st Century_. Grabbing _Captain America: A Biography_ , James goes in search of a comfortable chair.

_Steven Grant Rogers was born on July 4, 1918_.

James flips through the pages, pausing at pictures of a skinny short boy interspersed with photographs of 1920s and 30s era Brooklyn. He skims through the Depression and the loss of Steve’s parents and slows down as he reads more about the Army’s Super Soldier project and how it changed Steve’s life forever. He leafs through Captain America’s stage tour, complete with a sketch of a monkey on a unicycle, with growing indignation. James slows down as he nears Steve’s journey to Italy.

_During that show for the soldiers, Steve Rogers learned that members of the 107th Infantry had been captured by a subdivision of the Nazis, called Hydra. Among these men was Rogers’ best friend from Brooklyn, Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes._

The photograph underneath that paragraph shows a man with not-quite regulation hair, a piercing deep-set gaze, and a stubborn jut to his clean-shaven jaw. James rubs at his own jaw, looking back at the almost mirror image of himself. Who is this man, who has his name and looks exactly like him? Feeling trepidation, James reads on. He reads about the Howling Commandos and the brave and daring missions this elite Special Forces group carried out under the brilliant tactical mind of Captain America.

_The only man ever lost from the Howling Commandos was Sergeant Barnes. He fell in the line of duty, somewhere in the Alps. It is said that Steve Rogers was never the same afterwards, crashing into the Arctic only several weeks-_

James slams the book shut. The noise startles the other patrons in the room, generating a chorus of _shhs_ and more than several glares in his direction. He ignores everything, leaving with the sound of labored breathing loud in his ears.

 

James Buchanan Barnes and Stephen Grant Rogers.

Bucky and Steve.

James finds himself back in his apartment, prone on the mattress on the floor.

Who the hell is Bucky?

He rolls off his bed and walks to the little mirror on top of his sink and stares back at himself. Hair straggles limply over his forehead, two days’ worth of stubble prickling at his face. James pushes his hair back and adjusts his posture, back ramrod straight as he looks himself square in the eye. He grabs his razor and carefully lathers up, clearing away the stubble. James looks at himself again, searching for similarities between himself and the picture held next to the mirror, ripped out of the library book.

The same eyes look back at him, sunken deeper into tired dark circles. He turns his head, finding the same jawbone jutting out as he clenches his jaw.

It’s him. He’s Bucky.

He releases his hair and collapses back on his bed. Is that who the Other is? Is the Other actually Bucky Barnes? The sharp throbbing at the back of his mind seems to signify that there is at least some truth to the statement, and he quells it viciously as he scrubs his hand through his hair, making it poof up wildly.

If the original owner of this body isn’t him, as he thought it was, then who was he? Why would “Bucky” be corralled away in his own mind, and James - the _Winter Soldier_ \- be given free reign of his body? If “Bucky” had been a loyal member of the United States Army sixty years ago, what would he be doing waking up in a Hydra facility as the choice weapon of the Red Room? 

James gets up and put on his shoes, grabbing his keys.

It’s time for some answers.

 

\----

 

James pushes past Steve’s startled “Hello” and stalks into the living room.

“I have a question to ask you,” he starts without preamble. “Are you or are you not Captain America?”

“Wha- What are you talking about?” He doesn’t even try to sound convincing.

“Look, I was walking around Manhattan last week when the Doombots were attacking. Remember when you were yelling at a whole bunch of civilians to ‘get away from here’? I was one of those people you were shooing away. That was your voice.” James stops, breathing heavily. He turns away from Steve to face the bare walls, visibly trying to calm himself down. He turns around, cold and expressionless. “So, are you Captain America?”

Steve slumps down and exhales, but doesn’t say a word.

James makes a frustrated noise, raking his hair away from his face roughly. “I don’t care if you are. Scratch that. I don’t care if you’re Captain America in the way that you think I’ll care. I won’t expose you to the world or anything like that, even though your identity is practically public domain. Did you know you have at least forty books about you in circulation at the New York Public Library?”

Steve opens his mouth.

“No, shut up, Steve." 

Steve closes his mouth. He sense that James is agitated for a particular reason and he waits with bated breath, hoping that he is right.

“I care because this raises so many questions. Who am I, Steve? I thought I was James, but now it turns out I’m wearing the face of your dead best friend,” he laughs bitterly, dragging a hand over his face. “No wonder you looked like you saw a ghost when you first saw me. I am a ghost.”

James walks over to Steve, face uncomfortably close. “Why is everything matching up? Why is it that the date Bucky Barnes fell is so close to the first day that James can remember? Why is it that I can remember that you used to be smaller? Why don’t I have a last name?” His voice raises with every question, choking abruptly in exasperation at himself.

 

“James.”

He walks out of the room without looking back.

 

\----

 

“James.”

James curses silently before coming to the front of the diner. He gives Steve a blank stare. “Can I take your order sir?”

“James, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to talk to you here,” James snaps, turning away to scrub a crusty stain on the counter. He hoped it would be a clear enough dismissal for Steve, but fortune isn’t on his side.

“There’s no other place I can talk to you. I don’t know where you live, and you didn’t show up for coffee at the time we set up last week. I’ve been coming here every night trying to find you, but tonight is the first night that you’ve showed up.” Steve sounds strained.

James sighs, giving up on the stubborn stain. “If you’re going to stay here, you need to order something. What do you want?”

Steve sniffs the air hopefully. “Do I smell apple pie?”

The apple pie _thunks_ in front of Steve. It comes with coffee and some ice cream without him asking, which has to count for _something_. Probably a larger bill.

“You knew.” It was not a question.

“Yeah.” Steve sighs heavily.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Steve furrows his eyebrows at James. “Would you believe me if I told you that you were the spitting image of my best friend who died seventy years ago? Also would you not have been slightly weirded out?”

James looks down. “I guess, but that still isn’t grounds for you to keep that kind of information hidden is it?” He fixes Steve with a steady look, refusing to back down. “After all, you still mentioned your best friend all the time anyway.” Steve breaks away first, cutting into his apple pie à la mode.

They both wait silently as Steve chews, gathering their thoughts. “Look, when I first walked into the diner, I didn’t expect anything like this would happen. Jon apparently quit and there was this kid taking my order and pouring me coffee. He looks exactly like Bucky, sounds exactly like Bucky, even walks exactly like Bucky. Can you blame be for bolting that first night?”

James feels the corners of his mouth quirking slightly, remembering the sheepish and timid way Steve had poked his head through the door the next night, before he straightens his lips out into a forbidding line once more. “And then what happened the next time you came in? And the next? You didn’t bolt then.” He reaches out with a fork of his own, spearing a thick apple slice from Steve’s plate.

There’s a muffled groan from Steve’s direction, before he remembers he doesn’t really have a right to complain. “No, I guess I didn’t have an excuse.” He halfheartedly fields James’ swift ice cream theft, before hastily pulling his plate closer to him and shoveling the entire slice quickly into his mouth. They both laugh, Steve’s mouth bulging a little, before sobering again. James clears away the plates, taking a deep breath before turning around to face Steve once more.

“I have to ask you. Did you and the Other- _Bucky_ , I mean, have a relationship?”

Steve nods. “Kind of. We had always lived together, practically out of each others’ pockets. But Bucky always went out with girls, and whenever he could scrounge up a girl for me, we would go on double dates. He never brought any of them home though. We always stayed up talking after a double date, until it was time for us to go to bed. Bucky was a complicated guy, you know?” He smiles wistfully. “After I found him again - I’m sure you read about that - it always felt like he was on the verge of telling me something.”

“And you?”

“Me? I guess I was waiting for him to say it.”

“But did you... did you have feelings for him too?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me ask you another question.” James fumbles, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely feeling something between us. If that’s true,” he quirks an eyebrow inquiringly at Steve, who nods. “If that’s true,” James continues, heart warming despite the situation, “how much of it is because I look like Bucky, and how much of it is because of me? Because make no mistake, I’m not Bucky,” he spits with a little more vehemence than he would have liked. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” 

The silence stretches on.

“I need you to answer that question, you know.”

Steve glances quickly at him before looking back down at the worn formica countertop.

“I see.” James sighs before nodding at him. “When you make up your mind, you know where to find me. Don’t worry about the pie,” he mumbles, turning away to busy himself with the dishes.

James refuses to turn back around, eventually hearing Steve sigh. He’s acutely aware of the scrape of a chair, receding footsteps, and the little tinkle of the doorbell sound. Then silence.

Every bell chime for the next couple of nights has James looking up hopefully, only for him to slump imperceptibly in disappointment as he sees yet another drunk patron stumble and weave into the diner for a cup of coffee.

James knows that it’s only fair to give Steve some time to sort though his feelings. He may like Steve, but there are a host of other issues that Steve must work through before there is a possibility for any kind of relationship between the two of them. It’s only fair for Steve. It’s only fair for him.

If James and Steve are to continue their friendship, let alone allow it to develop into something deeper, they need to both at least address their reservations and concerns. He doesn’t want Steve to come to James but be looking for Bucky. James the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes, for all they share the same face - and indeed the same body - are not the same person. James knows that Bucky is the Other, the original owner of this body. Selfish as it is, he had not asked to be born, but was simply created. Once created, there was quite possibly no power on Earth that could induce him to stop clinging to life with the same tenacity that had served him well for so many years.

If Steve isn’t able to understand or accept that, then their friendship will have to cease, no matter how much it would pain both of them.

James begins to wake up more frequently at night, gasping for breath as his heart races to calm itself.

 

On the third night, James heard the bell ring quietly from behind the stove. He doesn’t bother poking his head around, calling out “Sit wherever there’s free space! I’ll get to you in a few seconds!” instead. He adjusts the heat on a bubbling pot of stew before washing his hands clean of gravy and smiling at the new customer.

Oh fuck. 

It’s Steve.

Steve, sitting in his usual place, smiling shyly at James.

He isn’t ready for this. James stands frozen for a few seconds, before mentally shaking himself and walking towards the coffee pot. He grabs a mug and pours some for Steve before turning back and setting the mug down in front of him.

“Thank you.”

James grunts in acknowledgement. 

“I’ve made a decision,” Steve says finally.

James grunts inquiringly.

“I don’t know if you’re going to like it, but,” Steve takes a deep breath. “I know that it’s not fair for you if I come looking for Bucky. I promise that I am here because I am interested in you, James. The fact that you’re wearing my dead best friend’s face,” he winces “Doesn’t mean that I like you any less. But it does mean that I’m going to make mistakes from time to time. And the only thing that I can ask, if you’ll take me, is that you forgive me and help me move past it when it does happen.”

There’s a long silence after that, broken only by the quiet sobbing of a melancholy drunk into his coffee in the corner.

“I guess that’s all that I can ask, right?” James finally replies. He’s not quite sure how to process what Steve just said, only that he knows Steve is telling the entire truth this time.

Steve’s answering smile illuminates the diner like a blinding sun.

“Wait,” James says suddenly. “So all those times you were talking about your best friend-”

Steve has the grace to look abashed. “Yeah, all those times." 

“You little punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve replies automatically, before his eyes widen comically.

“Steve...” James isn’t sure what just happened, but it felt so natural for him to call Steve a punk. The Other is emanating waves of contentment. Evidently, it must have been a regular exchange between the two.

“Sorry, that’s what Bucky and I used to do all the time.” Steve looks faintly apologetic. “That’s the last thing he said to me before he shipped off over to Europe. Sorry. I promised I would stop talking about him.”

“No, Steve. I was actually wondering,” James starts out slowly. “Do you think you can tell me more about Bucky?”

Steve’s eyes widen, and the smile on his face shines as brightly as a star going into supernova in that tiny diner.

 

\----

 

“Tell me more about Bucky.” 

They’re standing next the water’s edge of a pond, where Steve is unsuccessfully trying to attract ducks towards them with the canned corn James had taken from the diner. He stops trying to quack at a duck long enough to stare at James. The whole relationship thing is still a little new, raw enough at the edges that it’s hard to tell what would be well-received or not. After the incident with the cell phone and a talk about the whole superhero business, they had learned to say what was on their mind, rather than dance cautiously around the subject. 

Unsurprisingly, James had taken to it faster than Steve had. 

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. I want to know everything,” James finally replies. “What was he like? What drew people to him? What did you li- love about him?” He looks a little wary as he asks the last question, like he’s not sure it’s allowed.

Steve huffs. “That’s a lot of things to ask. I’m not sure I can tell you everything about him in one go.” His eyes are already seventy years in the past as he trails off.

James nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own when too much time has passed, drawing him back to present. “You can tell me things as they come to mind. Whenever you look like you’re going that far away, I’m afraid that I can’t bring you back. Tell me so that I can at least try to hitch a ride back with you.”

No matter how many times Steve smiles at James, he can’t help but stare as the tiny careworn lines around Steve’s eyes transform into crinkles of happiness. James tugs Steve back to the blanket on the ground and lays back in Steve’s lap.

“Bucky’s birthday is March 10, 1917. He hates broccoli but loves cauliflower, even though they’re the exact same thing,” Steve rolls his eyes. James makes a protesting, indignant noise, but Steve just flicks some corn at him before continuing. “There was this other kid names James at the orphanage where we grew up, so I started calling him Bucky. Buchanan was too long hard a name for a seven year old, and the name stuck. You know, he hated that name in the beginning but when everyone started calling him Bucky, he just gave up...”

Steve rambles on and on about Bucky, and James closes his eyes and soaks in the information and the sound of his voice under the wan spring afternoon sun.

 

\----

 

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you?”

James rolls over to squint up at Steve. From his vantage point on the floor, Steve looks faintly ridiculous with his face smashed into the couch cushions. It had been a long day of superhero business, James watching nervously from a distance as Steve fought to contain some neo-Nazi that had somehow managed to lay their hands on alien technology. They’ve just eaten - Steve convincing James to try sushi out - and now they’re both sprawled out, sinking bonelessly into sofa cushions and carpet.

“Maybe. Someday,” James furrows his brows, trying to choose his words carefully. “I’ve done a lot of things in the past, between the times that I saw you again. Terrible things, you know? They wiped my memory a lot too, so it’s all coming back in bits and pieces.”

Steve makes an abortive movement towards his hand, stopping halfway. James takes his hand, pulling it down to interlace his fingers between Steve’s.

“I need to sort out what they’ve done to me,” James grimaces, “And figure out who I am before I tell any authority figure about myself. Everything is still so new, and I don’t want someone to tell me who I am and what I’ve done without me determining for myself what the truth is.”

He looks up at Steve, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I’ll tell you one thing. Look it up if you want to, or don’t, but know that it’s a long and messy road ahead if you do. Go to SHIELD and ask them about the Winter Soldier and the Red Room.”

“The Red Room? I know someone who came from there,” Steve says, suddenly alert. “Do you know a Natasha Romanoff? Actually I don’t know if that was her name back then...”

James sits up, surprised. “Natasha... Natalia? Short, red hair, can kill men with her bare toes?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. She was under some brainwashing thing with the Red Room and now she works for us.”

“I’d like to meet her again someday,” James replies thoughtfully. “When I turn myself in, maybe.”

 

\----

 

The next time James walks into Steve’s apartment, it reeks of alcohol and papers are strewn all over the hardwood floor.

“Steve?” James calls out cautiously.

Steve walks out to greet him, eyes and gait indicating that he’s decidedly sober despite the scent in the air. “Hey, James.”

“What’s going on?” James asks, searching for clues. He spies the word _Winter Soldier_ on the floor near him. “Oh. You decide- Oof!”

His surprise at Steve’s bear hug quickly dissipates as he feels Steve bury his face into the t-shirt he’s wearing. “Hey, hey, it’s all right”

“James,” Steve breathes, voice hitching. 

“Shh, I’m not James. Tonight, I’m Bucky,” James murmurs. If that’s what Steve needs. “You gonna let me breathe?”

Steve laughs wetly. “Missed you Buck,” he whispers back, easing his vice grip a little bit.

“Missed you too Stevie,” Bucky mutters, nosing at his hair gently.

Steve clings to him like he’s afraid Bucky will leave if he lets go. Bucky whispers in his ear, rubbing up and down his back as he cries.

“Hey buddy, let’s move somewhere more comfortable,” Bucky murmurs eventually when Steve grows quiet. “Let’s go to the couch.” He steers both of them gently in that direction, maneuvering them until they sit side by side.

Even then, Steve plasters himself to Bucky’s side, reluctant to be parted with him for even an instant. Bucky raises his arm in invitation and Steve comes in to pillow his head on Bucky’s shoulder. They sit for a while like that, neither willing to break the heavy silence between them.

“It was so hard without you,” Steve whispers into his shoulder. He shifts a little more and Bucky lies down, dragging Steve on top, so close their faces almost touch. “After you died, I wanted to hunt down every single Hydra base and destroy them for killing you. They didn’t even let me go back to look for you.” His voice cracks on the last syllable and falls silent. 

“I’m here now, it’s okay,” Bucky looks up and smooths Steve’s hair away from his face.

“No, it’s not okay.” Steve sits up to look at him. “I can’t imagine the things they’ve done to you.” His eyes flicker quickly to Bucky’s left arm and back. “This whole time I thought you were dead but maybe if I had insisted that Army HQ let me search then all of this could have been prevented-”

“Shh,” Bucky soothes him. “It’s all right. I’m here now. It’s okay.”

It’s only several hours later when Steve’s hitching breaths finally quiet down and he lies sleeping in Bucky’s lap that he allows himself to slowly prod Bucky back into the recesses of his mind.

James arranges him comfortably on the couch, blanket draped over him, and leaves a glass of water on the coffee table. With a final backward glance, he leaves the apartment to go to work, the door closing with a quiet _snick_.

 

\----

 

“Looks like you had a rough morning,” James comments, motioning towards the television.

“Yeah, a couple of alien life forms landed and didn’t want to cooperate and started blasting some buildings. We had to take them down.”

_Let’s hear it for Captain America!_

The TV blares on, recapping the heroic adventures of the Avengers under the leadership of the always brilliant Captain America.

James frowns. That phrase. It sounds incongruous, coming from someone else. There’s something about that phrase that rouses something deep within him. He stares down at the ground, as if the slight warp in the floorboards hold all the answers to the endless torrent of questions he has.

“Something the matter, James?” Steve asks quietly.

“Those words. Why do they sound so familiar? I feel something connected to it but I don’t know what,” James replies without removing his eyes from the ground. It’s only a small section. Maybe he can convince the boss to let him repair it this week-

“You did say it before.” Steve cuts through James’ thoughts sharply. He looks up quickly, the note in Steve’s voice indicating that it’s yet another memory. He’s not sure he wants to hear, because having another one of the Other’s memories means that the Other is winning. But he’s so curious, to see what makes his insides churn in a proprietary way over those words. “It was right after we arrived back at base camp in Italy, with the rest of the 107th. Everyone was sorting things out when all of a sudden, you just yell ‘Let’s hear it for Captain America!’ and the rest of the camp started cheering with you. Do you know, that was the first time I had ever felt useful for the war?”

James opens his mouth and closes it again.

“Even when no one else looked out for me, you were always there.”

 

\----

 

James is engaged in heroic efforts to retrieve the maraschino cherry from the bottom of his milkshake, when Steve asks a question. The cherry is always eaten last, thank you very much. None of this hedonistic eat the cherry first business for him. It’s the first warm day of spring and James dragged Steve out to see the flowers bloom and maybe sucker him into buying a milkshake for him. He looks at Steve, who is blushing, but manages to keep his eyes on James.

“Sorry, come again?” James asks, still determinedly fishing for the cherry with half his attention.

“I said, do you want to move in with me?”

James drops the cherry in surprise.

“I mean, because you’re always over at my place and I was thinking that you wouldn’t have to walk home after and you don’t let me come over to yours anyway,” Steve rushes to say, almost tripping over his words in his haste.

A bright peal of laughter shuts him up effectively. James had been planning on keeping Steve on the edge just a little longer, but his earnest hopeful expression makes him relent. 

“Yeah, sure,” James replies, valiantly trying to rein in his chuckles. “That sounds like a good idea. Katya’s - my landlady - has been telling me that I shouldn’t be paying rent on an empty apartment. She likes you, by the way.”

“You tell her about me?” Steve asks, preening.

“Mhm. I tell her about how you broke my heart and then won me back again,” James deadpans. “No, I tell her about how you’re my sun and stars and I would never survive without you.” He clutches his heart dramatically, while Steve laughs outright at him.

 

\----

 

“Hey Steve.” James nudges his side 

“Hmm?” Steve mumbles, rolling over to face him. He smiles the satisfied sleepy smile of the newly woken, nosing into James’ chest.

“I was thinking...” James starts hesitantly. “I think I’d prefer if you called me Bucky.”

Steve freezes.

The silence lengthens until James calls his name. “Stevie?”

Steve draws a deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah, Bucky?” His voice cracks in the middle of the yeah, so thick with emotion that Ja- no _Bucky_ is surprised that he can even speak. 

Bucky pulls Steve up to look him in the eye.

“I think we’re gonna be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> huge thanks to [erin](http://tinysteve.tumblr.com), [paula](http://inkorstardust.tumblr.com), and [colleen](http://overachievious.tumblr.com), the shining beacons of positive energy that have pushed me despite my moaning and groaning through the past forever. also thanks to everyone else that has helped me with comic book knowledge and weather in nyc and whatever else i was too lazy to google.
> 
> hang out with me on [tumblr](http://captainfart.tumblr.com)


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